


Ohm: The Unit of Resistance

by Xerphena



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All OCs are the same character in slash tags I'm just covering all my bases, Dakota is not necessarily non-binary, F/F, F/M, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), The Golden Trio Era (Harry Potter), The reader has no confirmed gender so you can fill in as you wish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerphena/pseuds/Xerphena
Summary: You sit on the steps to the dungeons and feel the cold air your face. A window behind you lets in a brilliant ray of sunshine which warms your back. You breath. The world is still and unreal for a moment caught in a delicate thread of peace. You feel alright; even if only for a moment.Your name is Dakota Halton, and you have returned home. Your career is in shambles. The past you have longed so hard to forget pursues you. You could deal with it, but you won't. It is easier to pretend it doesn't bother you.This fic traverses a very large section of time.
Relationships: Severus Snape/ Original Non-Binary Character, Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s), Severus Snape/Original Male Character(s), Severus Snape/Reader
Kudos: 15





	1. Volume One: Chapter One: Welcome Home

**Ohm: The Unit of Resistance**

**Volume One: Chapter One (B)**

**July 1995**

The flat in Edinburgh is neither spacious nor in a good location, but it is cheap. It is located above a takeaway place which is owned by a Pakistani couple who, ironically, serve neither Pakistani nor Scottish food. They serve sushi which, as you discovered your first night in the flat, was surprisingly delicious and came in a container that is currently moldering on your coffee table.

You’re name is Dakota Halton, and you have come home.

A labyrinth constructed of tottering towers of piled boxes surrounds you. The majority of them are unmarked; a decision you regret now that you are attempting to unpack. The unpacking is not going well primarily due to your own lack of effort. Your mother would call you lazy and would have forced you to clean up the house as soon as possible.

“There is no time to be lazy, Dakota. You’re home should be unpacked by the third day,” she would say. You’re thankful that you had forgotten to mention it to her. Not that you have spoken to her recently enough to mention it to her. You cannot remember the last time you called her, and she has long since stopped trying to call you. A breeze from the open window—a grimy thing covered with a set of blinds on which the fifth blind is broken and lets in a thin stream of light—moves the open side of one of the yet unpacked boxes; you have a tendency to rip open a box to check its contents to find some item you threw into a box without thought.

You lounge on your couch—A lavender futon which has too thin a mattress to be particularly comfortable—while chewing on the end of your pen. Its a cheap plastic ballpoint which is riddled with your teeth marks. A first draft of your resume rests on your lap; you haven’t needed to apply for a job for over a dozen years, so the process is unfamiliar. Your skill set leaves something to be desired with regards to its variety. You rub at your eyes, knocking your glasses askew. Maybe you should have listened to professor Flitwick when he recommended that you keep your options open.

A shape darts across the room. Craig. You glare at him. “Don’t you even think about it, Craig.” Craig, for he is a cat, does not listen to you and jumps up on a box he presumed is still closed. The box, however, is not closed, and you hear him thump to the bottom of the box. Then comes a despondent meow.

Craig gazes at you with a sad little face as you walk over. He lets out a long warbling cry as you grasp him around the middle. He wriggles wildly and flees as soon as you drop him on the ground into the kitchen. “You’re welcome, you ungrateful asshole,” you laugh to yourself and turn away from the box, but a coloured file folder catches your attention.

You grab the folder. It bulges from all the papers hastily shoved within. The papers are numerous and in varying colours. The folder itself appears like it was once red, but has long since faded to a kind of brownish pink and is held together by an aged manila elastic band. (You see that you had written: _School Letters_ in messy handwriting with a quill).

You wander into the kitchen. Craig sits on the counter attempting to drink water from the leaking faucet, but he merely succeeds in wetting his face. The fridge bulbs flickers to life as you root around for a couple near empty bottles of sauces and find a half bottle of flat cola. It tastes subpar and sits heavy on your tongue. You suppose it serves you right for buying the off-brand stuff. With a wave of your wand, you see bubbles of carbonation begin to appear.

The coffee table is piled high with takeaway containers and knick-knacks you had unpacked but had yet to put away. You drag over a chair from the kitchen set and position it in front of couch. You place your bottle of pop on the chair and sit cross-legged on the couch. The folder is heavy in your lap as you unwrap the elastic band. The papers inside pop out as if taking a breath after their long confinement in the aged and fading folder. You grab the first letter and trace your eyes along the top line as you take a sip of the pop. Its better carbonated than flat but still not that good.

> _Hey Dakota,_
> 
> _How has your Hols been? I’ve had a spectacular Yule. Mother and Father have finally allowed me to participate in the celebration which is a great honour. Or “Bangin’” as you like to put it. I hope you’ve been studying for you exams! Second year, things are getting intense. By the way, father wouldn’t let me buy you something for muggle Christmas so I did my best to draw a picture of my Kneasle for you._
> 
> _Happy Yule,_
> 
> _Elias Tremblay_
> 
> _P.S. Magnolia sent me a letter saying that Professor Slughorn has finished brewing the potion, so we’ll have a copy of the group photo waiting for us when we go back to school._

On the back of this letter, you find a surprisingly well rendered image of a calico kneasle. A soft smile graces your face. You flip through the files until your hand touches a fraying photograph. It’s a group photoshoot with you and your friends from school. You recognize yourself dressed in your crisp Ravenclaw robes. You’re hair is a travesty, thick not-quite-curls flew around your face in a veritable mane. You laugh softly. The you in the photograph waves at you. You look at the other faces, but their names do not come immediately to mind. You notice with a pang of something you don’t want to name that you never kept up with any of your friends after graduation.

You flip the photograph over. On the other side is a date with a list of names: _1975._ _Magnolia Peters, Annabelle Alforth, Dakota Halton, Elias Tremblay, and Zachary Godwin._ Below that is a note: _Picture taken outside of Slytherin common room by Dakota’s friend, Severus Snape._ The smile falls off of your face.

Your aunt is a rail thin spectre of a woman. She wrinkles her nose as her eyes trail over the menagerie of thrift store furniture and outdated tech. You are glad when she doesn’t mention anything about it. You’re aunt wears a set of grey robes which are constructed to form a rather harsh angular silhouette.

She gives you a thin smile and reaches into her dark blue cloak. She withdraws a small, brown wrapped package. “I heard of your return, and I thought it would be prudent to come by with a housewarming gift. Edinburgh is relatively close to Thistle End. I will be sure to visit periodically. You’re new home is so—“she pauses “—quaint.”

You take the rather heavy package into your hands. You lift the plain tag reads: _To help you settle in. I hope your return home is pleasant. –Aunt Clytemnestra._. As the paper unfurls, you see an ornate brown box covered in intricate carvings of flowers and flowing water. You lift the lid and find a well-made leather wallet with the name _Xenakis_ pressed into the back of it. It is an old style wallet with no space for cards or I.D. Your hand is able to extend far further inside than should be possible. You feel a couple of things in the wallet and you withdraw a bottle of white wine—a French Chardonnay—and a light blue candle which you think is lilac scented.

“I had the leatherworker enchant it with an undetectable extension charm. I hope that it serves you well,” Clytemnestra says.

A soft smile worms its way onto your face. It feels strange. You belatedly realize that you have yet to invite her to sit down. “Uh, yea. Thank you. Uh, you can sit down. I can get you something to drink? We can have this Chardonnay, or I think I have some coke and water?”

She sits on your futon without compliant but grimaces slightly. She places her hand bag on the floor. “Yes. The Chardonnay would be lovely. Thank you, Dakota.”

You begin to root around your kitchen looking for suitable glasses, when you remember that Robin took them. You pull out two slightly dusty glass cups and pour out the wine. “No problem. Who told you that I had moved back?”

“Your mother mentioned it to me when I visited her last weekend. Rheie said she intended to make plans to meet with you, has she yet?” You can’t see your aunt, but you can imagine her judging the room.

“Of course not. I made it pretty clear when I graduated that I was done with her, if you catch my drift.” You hand one of the glasses to your aunt. She minutely raises her eyebrows but says nothing at the glass.

Your aunt hums. “Are you looking for work?” You see her looking at your resume draft.

“I quit.”

“You’re mother said that you work for some big company. Did it fall apart?” She reaches into her handbag and begins to look for something.

You shrug. “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”

She glances up at you. “And it took you twelve years to figure that out?”

“Yep.”

Clytemnestra nods absently. She retrieves a small coin purse which jingles. She holds out the purse. “To get you back on your feet.”

“I can’t—”

“Take it, Dakota.”

The coin purse sits heavy in your hand as you take it from her. She sits back and smiles at you.

“Welcome back home. I hope things get better for you.” She doesn’t reference Robin. You are thankful.

The box cutter snags on the cardboard as you try to open a large box. You yank the cutter back into position and manage to get the box open; you find the first half of your books. You vaguely remember that, in your hurried packing, you had separated your books into three separate boxes. “Finally.” You whisper to yourself and begin to put the books on the shelf. The majority are paperbacks with creased spines from numerous rereads. Your taste in books is wide and varied, and your unpacking is delayed when you find your old copy of _L’Etranger_ and spend a good half hour skimming the notes written into the margins. You also realize, during this distraction, that your French has slipped, and you don’t remember as much as you thought you might.

You get to the bottom of the box and pick up the biggest book by far: _The Capable Coder: A Course in Coding for the Computer Curious_. Thumbing through the pages, you open to the table of contents and glance at your cramped notes. You slowly flip through the book. On the tenth page, you find a sticky note stuck beside a paragraph introducing the uses of coding—the subject of the first section. _Tony sent me a letter back! His inventions sound so interesting! Imagine the applications!_

You feel a melancholic something wriggle into your gut. In the latter pages, in the midst of a chapter discussing how to maintain floppies, you find an envelope. The parchment envelope looks to be unblemished or smudged, so it certainly hadn’t gone through the post system. You gingerly lift the letter to examine it. There isn’t a name printed on the front. You think that someone just probably gave you this, and you just tucked it into the pages to keep it safe. You open it and withdraw the parchment from within.

You recognize immediately your own handwriting. It lacked the distinct harshness that your current handwriting exhibits. You know the letter must be old; it must have been written at least a decade or more ago. 

> _Severus,_
> 
> _I know that Dumbledore has spoken on your behalf, and that he has said that you were spying for the Order during the war. I don’t believe him. Or—maybe I do. I don’t know. At any rate, we shouldn’t be friends anymore. What I said to you in third year is still true._
> 
> _I’m sorry about Lily,_
> 
> _Dakota Halton._
> 
> _P.S. The kiss was a mistake._

You reread the letter twice before setting it down on the floor beside you and placing your head in your hands. How could you forget this letter? You spent months agonizing over it, rewriting it again and again. You remembered how you wrote over a dozen drafts before settling on this one. Even this one fails to capture to entirety of your emotions.

Craig rubs his head against the underside of your arm, and you rub your hand along his back. Once and then twice. It was a long time ago; no point in dredging up the past. You grab the letter and walk over to where you left the faded folder of memories and stick the letter into the of the pile. Then, you shove the rewrapped bulging folder into the top of your dusty folder and let it be forgotten with forcible intent.

**Volume One: Chapter One: (A)**

**1967**

Your house in the small town of Hawkshead, Cumbria was a perfectly fine place to grow up. Hills of green grass and mossy stone were interspersed with idyllic houses of a rustic sort, all wood panelling and French Chateau foundations. The air was fresh, certainly fresher than anything towards London or the Midlands, and the sky was a pristine blue when the English weather allows it, of course. Yes, Hawkshead was certainly the perfect place to live. Rather, it would be if you were not you, but you are you. And that is a fact. You found that Hawkshead was rather mundane. You were an inquisitive child and lacked any sort of common sense to stay home with a contentment found only in warm food and home. You preferred excitement. So, as a child you tended to roam the outskirts of the city in search of something to do.

The town lacked many typical activities which a child of your sort would like to engage. An example of this is a cinema. You’ve only been to the cinema twice. Once on a trip to Brighton, your parents had taken you to the cinema. The bright lights and large screen had enthralled you. The movie, _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_ (the original, not the remake, the year was 1971 and the remake had yet to exist or to be conceived of), had been a pleasant departure from the monotony of your typical day. So to sum up in less words, you were quite adventurous and felt that such a spirit was not properly stoked in one Hawkshead, Cumbria.

On your excursions, you spent time with one of the other children in the town who would play with you. A pudgy little boy with a big forehead and small brown eyes—which he insisted were hazel—named Franklin. Franklin typically carried around a small red bouncy ball with his name scrawled across it in permanent marker, and he asked you insistently to play with him. You did not enjoy playing ball with Franklin on account of his three elder brothers who taught him to throw as hard and as fast as he can. This, consequently, made any sort of game into a one-sided dodgeball. You did not enjoy this at all. You were not physically inclined, and you were quite firm with telling Franklin that you did not in any ways appreciate having balls thrown at you in such an impolite manner. Football and basketball tended to end the same way with you angrily expressing your frustration to Franklin, and he made many excuses as to why you should not be cross with him.

There are a few dates every year that one would consider notable. Christmas (Eve and proper), New Years, Easter, your birthday, and the one day a year your aunt comes to visit. Your aunt was a strict woman. Your mother once said that her sister was nearly two decades older than herself, and she looked it too; your aunt had sleet grey hair pulled back into a severe bun, and a face that appeared to have never borne a grin in its life. The first time you remember her in your childhood home was three weeks prior to your fifth birthday. When you got home from kindergarten, you saw your aunt nursing a cup of tea while perched on the edge of the overstuffed floral couch to the left of your Motorola television.

Your aunt looked at your mother. “You did not tell me you had a child, Rheie.”

Your mother scolded you for tracking mud into the living room before she turned to her sister. “Yes. This is Dakota, Clytemnestra. Dakota, say hello to your aunt. My sister.” You had never heard a name like your aunts before, nor did you think you could pronounce it. You resolved, in that moment, to just call her aunt and avoid the name altogether.

Your aunt stayed for dinner that night, and the only magic you saw her cast was an umbrella charm as she stepped out after tea. You asked your mother about it afterwards. Your mother’s eyes were full of a kind of deep sadness as she told you about her and your father being squibs. You didn’t understand a lot of what she said, but you understand a few simple facts. One, you’re aunt was a witch. Not the green-nosed hag you saw on Hallowe’en, but a woman who could do magic. Two, you will probably never be able to do magic.

Your mother, Rheie Xenakis, was a tall, thin woman with olive skin. When you were a child, she kept her pin straight hair shoulder length and wore clothing of a similar ilk. She was a Real Estate agent, and you remember seeing her come home dressed in an A-line pencil skirt with a tight periwinkle blouse.

She behaved like a Real-Estate agent too. She was chatty and friendly. She protected her image with strict rules. There were many instances where she would not allow you certain clothes because they were: not befitting of a certain image. You supposed that was where she and your aunt were similar.

Your aunt continued to visit every year after her initial visit. She was not a nice woman, but she was not mean. She brought you a gift every time she visited. She was, of course, completely unaware of what sort of things a child of your particular upbringing would want and consistently brought gifts that were either for someone far younger than yourself or far older. You vastly preferred the latter occurrences with specific enjoyment of your seventh birthday when she brought you a gilded dagger from the family vault. Your mother had taken it away.

**1974**

You were walking home from getting lunch on Saturday evening at ten years old. The sun was setting and bathed the sky in a wash of reds and oranges. The trees stood stark against the skyline, their bare form scarring the sky. You kicked a rock with the toe of your boot and watched it skitter across the pavement. You looked to your right and saw the thin wrought iron fence of the old house at the end of the block. Outside of it, you saw Franklin peering through the bars of the fence.

“What do you think you are doing?” You yelled out to him as you walk over.

Franklin turned to you and then gestured to the house. “Do you think the house is haunted?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Are ghosts real? Mom’s only talked about ghouls before, apparently dad’s second cousin’s got one in her attic.”

Franklin rolled his eyes and sat down, leaning his back against the fence. “Your mom’s barmy. Ghoul’s aren’t ghosts anyways.”

“What’s the difference? They can’t be the same if they have different names.” You chose not to fight with Franklin about his rudeness simply because you do not like him enough.

“Does your cousin like his ghoul?”

“She’s my dad’s second cousin.”

“Does your dad’s second cousin like her ghoul?”

“No, she says its loud. Apparently his second cousin doesn’t use her attic that much,” you said matter-of-factly.

“Who uses their attic at all? My parents don’t. I think there are spiders up there.”

“My mum hides my Christmas presents up there.”

Franklin asked you what you think you’re getting for Christmas, and what you got for your birthday. You told him that your mother bought you a typewriter, and that you thought you were going to get a calculator for Christmas. He asked to use your typewriter. You said yes, but you didn’t really mean it. After about fifteen minutes of strained silence, you resumed you walk home, casting a look back at the abandoned house.

“I asked my mum about ghosts. She said they’re real.” It was a week later. You and Franklin met up in the woods by the tire swing which was built years ago by one of his older brothers.

“Did she say what the difference? Between them and ghouls, I mean.” Franklin climbed onto the tire swing without asking you if you’d like to go first. “Push me Dakota.”

You obliged him. “I forgot to ask. I think ghosts are just nicer ghouls. Ghosts have always seemed sad to me.”

“It can’t be fun being stuck in an old abandoned house. If I was a ghost, I think I’d like the haunt a sports arena.”

“I think ghosts just haunt wherever they die. You don’t hear about ghosts gallivanting about, do you?” you said, giving Franklin another push. “I think I’d like to die around my family, so I could be near them. It would suck being unable to at least see your family.”

“It must be lonely, being a ghost,” Franklin mumbled. You thought to yourself that he was right. Who would want to be alone?


	2. Volume One: Chapter Two: House Warming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you begin to settle into your new home. Guests come by for a visit which you were not, admittedly, fully expecting.

**Volume One: Chapter Two (B)**

**July 1995**

You start your morning looking for jobs. A software developer in London is looking for people to help with the creation of a “edutainment” teaching-typing game. You cannot help but feel as if it is a downgrade. You consider a position with a video game companies localization team, but you know that you don’t quite qualify for that either. You decide to toss your name into both and see what comes of it.

A repetitive tapping noise against your living room window gets your attention. You peak through the blinds. The day is dreary—wet—and you are reminded with some annoyance that such weather is typical of Britain. You suppose that, despite your bemoaning of the heat, living in California had you acclimated to the nice weather. You suppose that you are lucky to not live in the Moorlands.

You can’t see anything beyond the typical landscape, so you crack open the window to peak your head out. You see a crowd of people gathered on the street gawking. Their gazes are all fixated on an owl perched on the tree below your window. The owl is a well cared for thing with lovely tawny feathers which fall neatly on its back. You can see that it holds a parchment letter in its beak. With a sigh, you push away from the window, and—as expected—the owl flies into your window. The parchment letter is closed with a green seal. You flip the letter to check the addresses.

_Dakota Halton_

_126 Nicoloson Street_

_Newington, Edinburgh_

_United Kingdom_

_The Flat Above Warrior’s Table_

You check the return address.

_Albus Dumbledore_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Scottish Highlands_

_Great Britain_

You scowl and toss the envelope on the floor and crawl back into bed.

You walk to the charity thrift store three doors down with slightly crumpled list of furniture:

_End Table_

_Coffee Table_

_Telephone? For Jobs_

_Coffee Pot_

As you walk through the propped open door, you wrinkle your nose to find it nearly hotter inside than outside. The shop smells of mothballs, dust, and that unmistakeable scent of yellowing novels which is only created by years of neglect. You find an old push-button telephone on an unstable wooden shelf. It is an unpleasant shade of green, and the ‘8’ key takes significant force to press down. But you figure that it will work, and it is the only phone with some unidentifiable brown stain.

You slip it under your arm and begin to peruse the larger furniture. You find a set of old _Sears_ tables and call over a clerk to mark it for you. The coffee pot is much harder to find. You find a couple of stained options, but you eventually settle on continuing to use your funnel and filter method.

The whole lot costs you six pounds and five pence. You discreetly shrink the furniture and slip it into your pocket as you head out. After a quick trip to the convenience store where you grab some pre-made sandwiches, you head back home.

You plug the phone into the wall beside your bed. You lift the receiver to your ear and listen for the dial tone. It greets you, and you lay back down. You tuck your hand under your pillow and rest your head against your arm. Its raining, again, and you listen to the sound of the rain buffeting against your window. Its sound is rhythmic and calming. You close your eyes and fall asleep.

You are startled from your sleep and rub at your eyes. The phone is ringing. Your glasses are knocked off your face. You shove them back on.

“Hello?” you grumble.

“Is this Dakota Halton?”

You sit up in bed and roll your neck. You recognize the voice, but you cannot recall where from. It’s clear and clipped in tone.

“It is.”

“Good. How are you? Did the move go well?” The voice is a woman. You can recognize that much.

You grab your wand and accico your Gameboy. “Fine, I guess? Can I ask who this is?” You turn on _Castlevania_ and idly tap through the opening screens.

“Dakota. Don’t be ridiculous, you have to be beyond this by now.”

You pause. You recognize the voice now. Your mother. You take a deep breath and readjust the phone. “Hello, mom.”

“Hello, Dakota. So, your move went well, that is good. Tell me, why did your mother have to hear about your return from America from your aunt?”

You cringe. “I have been busy.” You decide not to mention that the two of you have not spoken for upwards of a decade.

“Too busy for your mother? Honestly. I did call for a reason. I remarried two years back. He told me to say ‘hello’. I’d like you to come and meet him. Maybe we can go for tea, down at that little shop we used to always go to.”

“What? You remarried?”

“Yes. I felt that it was time to find myself a husband. A second husband. Do you know if your father has married again?”

“No idea.”

Your mother just hums at that. “Well then. I will call you again with the time when we are free to go to the coffee shop. Do bring your own money dear, we are trying to save up for a larger condo. You understand.” She hangs up.

You hear paper scratching against the floor as Craig hits the letter from earlier into the centre of your living room. You put down your bowl of ice cream and turn away from the application letter you were writing. “Craig. Give me that please.” Craig does not. He grabs it in his mouth and runs towards the kitchen. “Craig!”

You run after him and eventually manage to catch him right as he is about to scurry under the couch. He calms immediately upon being grabbed and begins to purr, butting his head against your hand. You idly run your hand along his uneven orange coat. You can feel that he has multiple scabs along the side of his leg.

“Have you been fighting with the neighbourhood cats again? You won’t win, Craig,” you mumble and place a soft kiss on his forehead. “My sweet little bin boy.” 

_Dear Dakota Halton,_

_I would like to inform you of a visit I intend to make to your home on the 22 nd of July. I wish to discuss an employment opportunity for you at Hogwarts in the coming term. I would also like to discuss another opportunity, but we can get more into that when I arrive. _

_If you have any issues with these arrangements, please send me a letter stating such so we can make alternate arrangements. If not, I will see you at 3:17pm on the 22 nd. _

_Yours sincerely,_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

Your eyes go wide as you finish the letter. “Fuck.” You look over at the clock. 3:14. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” You stand abruptly and knock Craig out of your lap. You run your ice cream over to the sink, eating as much as you can while moving. With a wave of your wand, the dishes begin to wash. You sprint into the bedroom. Half unpacked boxes are open and sprawled across the room. With another wave of your wand you close them and stack them against the far wall. Your closet is a mess of clothes falling off hangers and mismatched socks. You grab a simple pair of jeans and a patterned button up. You pull on two, mismatched, socks and run a comb through your hair. It does very little to help settle the errant strands, but you suppose that it will have to do. You walk briskly into the bathroom and grab your Glade aerosol freshener, potpourri scented, and erratically sprayed it around the room.

Just as you put it back in the bathroom, you hear a polite series of knocks against the door. You take a deep breath, adjust your shirt, and walk over to answer the door. You can hear two people speaking in hushed tones on the other side. You stifle a scowl as you realize Dumbledore brought someone along with him.

“We should be discussing important matters rather than travelling all the way to Edinburgh on a whim and a note from an old friend,” the first voice says with an irate tone.

“This is an important matter. One of security. You are the one who has been saying that we should fortify headquarters should Potter move there more permanently,” the second answers calmly.

You deftly unlock the door and see Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape. You do your best to stifle your sudden annoyance with this fact. Snape. You haven’t spoken to the man in… a long time.

“Ah, Dakota,” Dumbledore says with a smile. “I am glad that you are home. I was a little worried that you may not have gotten my letter. You did get my letter, did you not?”

Albus Dumbledore was dressed like a man who walked through Macy’s sixteen years ago and bought the most saturated thing available. You stare at his shirt, bright orange will small green palm trees which mixed into an intoxicating pattern, for too long. Finally, Snape clears his throat. You turn your attention back to Dumbledore’s face. “Yeah,” you answer. “Uh. I’m being rude. Come in, I guess. Sorry for the mess.”

You step away from the door and enter your living room. They both enter the room, and you awkwardly gesture to the couch. Craig, upon seeing the newcomers, bolts from the room and into the bathroom. “So, yeah. Mi casa es su casa. I don’t really have much to eat. I think I have some leftover takeaway in the fridge. I can make some sweet tea? Err, that’s the American cold stuff. You know with the ice cubes in it and the lemon. I also have coke. Off-brand. Not real Coca-Cola. Or water… I guess. Don’t have any cold though. Guess I could chill it with my magic. So, uhh, yeah. Takeaway, maybe a peanut butter sandwich if you really want; sweet tea, the American stuff; real tea, I guess; Coke; or water.”

You wring your hands together as Dumbledore smiles warmly at you. Snape, for his part, seems rather unbothered by your rant. You examine him more closely for a moment. He is dressed in a simple black suit and looks to be little more than a businessman. You suppose that had Dumbledore not been with him, he would have been of little note.

“It has been a long time since I’ve tried sweet tea. Last time I was in America, I think. I think I would like to try it! Did you make it?” Dumbledore looks over at Snape and raises an eyebrow.

Snape who, up until this point had been avoiding looking at you, glances in your direction. His stare is blank and empty of all emotion. Yet, you watch the way he picks at his thumb pulling apart the nailbed. You think it may be an expression of thought, but you are not sure. “Could I just have a water, Halton.”

You go and make the drinks and bring them back. Dumbledore takes a sip of the sweet tea and compliments you on it. You nod and sit awkwardly on one of your dining room chairs. Craig hesitantly wanders back into the room. He runs his head against your knee.

“Who is this beautiful animal?” Dumbledore stretches out a hand. Craig moves over to him, and he gently scratches the top of his head.

“Uh. Craig. I found him in a dumpster near my old house in California. He was in a Jenny Craig box. The god-awful dieting company. He’s a dirty garbage boy. He’s also my familiar I guess,” you say. Snape snorts at the statement and looks away. You allow a smile to grace your features.

“Your home is very nice,” Dumbledore suddenly says. “When did you move in?”

You cringe internally. “I moved in only about a week ago. Thanks, I uh, liked the location.”

“Edinburgh is an interesting choice for you. Your parents still live in Cumbria, don’t they?”

You nod. “Well, my mother does. She sells real estate as far as Manchester, so she’s not home often. My father moved to Birmingham five or so years back with his girlfriend.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Is he still dating that waif of a girl? Momo?”

“God. Yeah. Mimi. She went to night school with me you know. Bitch.” You look over at Dumbledore and cringe. “Err. Sorry, professor.”

He waved his hand. “No need to worry my friend, now, on the note of professor this was more of a business trip than it is a pleasure trip. You moved to America to work after Hogwarts, did you not?”

“Yes. I ended up working for a start up company running out of California which eventually was called _Abjuration Alarms._ We designed high tech magical security systems which integrated and innovated Muggle technology. I was a programmer, although I eventually moved mainly over to Parsing. I do have intimate knowledge of the various functions of the system.” You wave your hand and summon a three-ring binder. “So, err. Yeah. This is my folder of uh… working notes? You can look through it if you’d like.”

Dumbledore reaches forward and takes the folder. “Alarm systems? Are they not destroyed inside of magical fields?” Snape leans over and looks at the binder as well.

“No. We dealt with that problem early on. It’s complicated, but the hardware is designed to avoid that issue.”

“In that case,” Dumbledore starts with a smirk. “I would like to commission a project.”

You blink a couple of times. “uhh…”

“You’re unemployed at the moment, aren’t you?” he continues

You know you can’t lie to Dumbledore. You adjust your glasses and glance over at Snape. You assume that he must be working for Dumbledore directly now then. You wrinkle your nose slightly and feel a headache coming on. “uhh, no?”

“Wonderful! Why don’t you come by the Order Headquarters Monday?”

You grimace and nod.

**Volume One: Chapter Two (A)**

**July 1975**

Your father was an accountant. That’s not to say he particularly liked being an accountant but working as the informal treasurer of the Abbott family until his eventual break with his wizarding relatives left him with an undeniable knack for the profession. His true passion was his car. A 1951 Studebaker which he bought while on a trip to America. You liked to chill in the garage while he worked. You tended to be of little help, barely able to differentiate between a screwdriver and a socket wrench, but you were still company.

Richard Halton’s voice had a sort of lilt to it. He had a tendency to ramble, typically a running narration of his particular actions. He looked much softer than your mother did. The man clearly didn’t work out much as he sported a soft belly. He liked to wear ratty undershirts, at least until your mother had clients over at which point, he tended to change into one of many identical sky-blue button ups. He had dishevelled brown hair which receded back and gave him the impression of a large forehead. His nose was lopsided and small, and he typically perched a pair of horn-rimmed eyeglasses which did not fit his round face.

On this day, you were tidying your room. Your mother was again inviting clients into her home. She had chosen to stop working with her realtor and instead was trying her hand at freelance. This, of course, meant she needed an office. You did not fully understand why your bedroom needed to be clean, but your mother’s response was merely that she was in charge of the household, and that she had a reputation to uphold. After cleaning your room and brushing your hair, you walked into the kitchen to grab a snack when someone knocked at your door. You, apple in hand, answered it and were greeted with a well-dressed woman. She had a tight face and dark brown hair pulled into a bun. She carried a simple umbrella.

“Hello. My name is Minerva McGonagall. Would your parents happen to be home?” she asked in a clipped voice. She reminded you of your aunt in some ways. The strict precision to which she held herself, but she seemed softer, kinder almost. Like she intended to be strict in order to provide a rock of support versus a wall of resistance.

“Uhh. Yeah, my mum is in the dining room. I can go get her, if you need to speak to her.” You gesture deeper into the house.

McGonagall graces you with a tight-lipped smile. “That would be acceptable, thank you.”

When your mother arrived, she looked surprised to see McGonagall at the door but introduced herself with a firm handshake. “Good afternoon, Minerva McGonagall was it? I am Rheie Halton, and this is Dakota. My husband, Richard, is in the garage if you need to speak with him also,” she paused for a moment as if realizing Minerva was still on the doorstep. You recognized this trick; it allowed your mother to take the position of the polite albeit airheaded woman. “I apologize, how rude of me, do come in. Would you like me to get you anything to eat or drink? I can put on a pot of tea.”

McGonagall steps into your front room and puts down her umbrella. Your mother helped her out of her coat and hung it on the rack adjacent to the door. “A coffee would be wonderful, thank you. I would like to speak to your husband as well, if you do not mind. This should not take long.”

“Of course. Dakota, will you go and get your father?” She turned her attention back to McGonagall. “I have a lovely dark roast from Italy which was sent to me by an old friend from school. I do hope your travel was okay. The weather is right sight at the moment.”

You walked away as McGonagall answered and entered the garage. Your father played the radio at a low volume as he compared leather seating patterns and colours. “Would ya say the brown leather or the white leather, D? I’m thinking a brown leather. It’d go really nice with the blue I’m painting this old girl.”

You take his swatch chart and point at the tan. “With white accents.”

He looks down and nods twice. “Okay. I’ll keep that under advisement. Do you need something?”

“Someone is here to see you and mum.”

“Work related?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He nodded and slipped on his light blue button up. “Come on, D. Let’s go.”

He walked into the dining room and smiled warmly at McGonagall. “Sorry about my tardiness, I just needed to finish a few things on the menu. Richard, Richard Halton. I see that you and my lovely wife are already acquainted.” He placed a soft his on the top of her head and sits beside her.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Halton. I am here on official Hogwarts business. I am the Transfiguration teacher and deputy headmistress. Your child has been accepted to Hogwarts for the next year.”

Your mother raised her eyebrows. “Dakota is magical? We didn’t expect that, what wonderful news. Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Hogwarts has never made an error in its long history. I have some literature to provide to help you get situated.”

Your father raised his hand. “No need, ma’am. I think my father left some books lying about which would serve. I suppose all we would need is the letter of acceptance and the supply list.”

“Yes.” McGonagall reached into her robes and withdrew the letter and passed it to you. “M—” McGonagall cut herself off and glanced you up and down briefly. “Halton, do you have any questions for me before I leave. This might be confusing, and I am very happy to answer any questions that you might have.”

You looked down at the letter in your hands and thought for a short moment, then you just shook your head no.

Later that night, your mother and father whispered to each other across the table while you mindlessly watched T.V.

“We can’t just let Dakota avoid proper school, Richard. I will be looking into summer schooling tomorrow.” Your mother spoke lowly and with a certain degree of scorn to her voice. You recognized the tone as similar to one she used when you skipped class to play at the skate park with the kids from across town.

“Summer was made for fun. Let Dakota have a good summer. I’m sure they’ll teach the basics at that school.”

You glanced back just as your mother shot your father a scathing look. “I asked Minerva for the curriculum. There is no maths or language. Much less any sciences or physical education. I won’t have my child writing like a primary drop-out.”

“Rheie…”

“What would the neighbours think, Richard. Dakota comes home from school after ten months and can barely recite multiplication tables. No. I will not stand for it, not in my house. Dakota will also need tutors for French and Italian. We should also make a reading list.”

Your father eventually nods and picks up the newspaper. “Of course.”

“I will immediately write to Clytemnestra. I know mother had her reading the classics as soon as she could lift a book.” Your mother walked out of the room to retrieve a pen and her letter set. You turned your attention back to your show and thought idly that you might miss your telly while at Hogwarts.


	3. Volume One: Chapter 3: Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You attend an order meeting regarding your commission and see Severus again.

**Volume One: Chapter 3 (B)**

July 1995

“Dumbledore is a great man. A great man indeed.” The man who answered the door when you knocked looks tired. He had red thinning hair and thrice repaired clothing. He introduced himself as something-Weasley. You forget the first name as when he said it, he took your hand in a firm grip and shook it twice. You think it started with an “a.”

You stood in the foyer of 12 Grimmauld Place. You wrinkle your nose at the dust in the air and mold covered baseboards. You are impressed to have ended up in a place which was in worse repair than your apartment. Then you immediately feel shame, knowing the two places are comparable. You watch a wretched looking House Elf wipe uselessly at a glass case the contents of which are unrecognizable. The House Elf assesses you for a second but averts his gaze quickly enough. You always hated the idea of House Elves and are glad that they were outlawed in America in 1965. 

“A great man indeed. Did you go to Hogwarts then?” The man ( _Archibald?_ You think to yourself) asks as he ushers you into the kitchen where a portly woman, with the same red hair as the man, toils. The kitchen is in better condition. The walls look to have been recently scrubbed clean of the grime which punctuates the rest of the house. The countertops are clean albeit cluttered with the signs of cooking well underway. The smell of food permeates the room, and your stomach rumbles at the idea of eating a home cooked meal for the first time in nearly six months. 

You scratch the back of your neck. “Uh—yeah. I did my magical education there. Class of ’82.”

The man ( _Arnold?)_ turns to the woman. “Molly, dear! This is Dakota Halton. Dakota, this is my lovely wife. Dumbledore asked Dakota to help with the Order’s security.”

Molly wipes her hands off on a tea towel and bustles over to you. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” She places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently. You repress a shudder at the touch.

“Yeah—uh. Pleasure.”

The man ( _Andrew?)_ gestures for you to take a seat at the table. “So, Dakota. What is it that you do?”

“I uhh—I build security systems, mr. Weasley. Or I did until recently.”

The man laughs. “Please call me Arthur. How did you get into that?”

“Joined a start up in San Francisco. I joined after getting my PH.D. Didn’t see myself becoming a lecturer.”

Arthur gives you a look of confusion. “A PH.D?”

You shrug. “Uh yeah. I took—uh some Post-Secondary education after graduating from Hogwarts. PH.D is like getting a Mastery in something.”

The floo lit up a bright green colour as Order members begin to trickle in. A woman with bright magenta hair settles into a chair opposite you. She looks at you critically for a moment, but she seems to decide that you are alright. A man broad man enters with her and sits beside Arthur.

“Post-Secondary education? Like an Apprenticeship?”

“It’s the Muggle term for school after High School.” The broad-shouldered man answers for you. He turns his attention to you. “Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

“Dakota Halton,” you say in response.

Your name draws the attention of the bright haired woman. “Halton? As in Doctor Halton? Dad read your thesis when it was discussed in the _Quibbler_.” She holds out her hand. “Tonks.”

You shake her hand. “Uh, yeah. That’s—uh that’s me.” You surreptitiously pull your hand back quickly.

A smile broke across Arthur’s face. “You’re one of those American Technomancers. I love your work. Can’t say I understand a lot of it, considering that most of it is written in all those lines of characters and numbers you all love so much.”

“Yeah.” You laugh awkwardly. “The basis is muggle Computer science, yes. We also rely a lot on the work of the Chinese Witch Que Yihan[i] so a lot of the terms for our work are in Chinese. So, I understand that it’s a little confusing. You work with muggle stuff then?”

Arthur nods. “I’m a member of the ministry with the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office.”

“He made a flying car once—” a young man with red hair says as he strolls into the room.

“—and we saved Harry Potter with it.” An identical man says immediately after the first.

Molly gestures for them to sit. “Fred, George. Sit before the rest of the order gets here. And no more trying to listen in on the meeting, do you understand me.”

“Of course, mother!” You decide that one is George.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” And this one is Fred.

You turn to Arthur. “A flying car?”

He shrugs. “I liked tinkering with it. Remarkably interesting how those muggles manage to find a way to get around.”

“I have a car. A—uh A Lotus Esprit? Green with the—uh—little set in headlights. If you want to look at it later? My uh— friend made some mods to it a couple years back. It can do—magical things?” You trail off with a grimace.

“You park out front?” Kingsley asks.

You shake your head. “Nah it can—uh—Robin. That’s a—uh—an old friend. Yeah. She made it so it can like shrink.” You pull out your keychain. A car, about the size of a _Hot Wheels_ was attached to the keys. “Pretty rad.”

“That’s illegal, you know,” Arthur says with a pointed look and a small smile.

“Eh? Didn’t they just say you—” you gesture to Fred and George.

“The law has a loophole—” George says.

“—He wasn’t intending on flying it, so he is in the clear.” Fred finishes.

“Arthur wrote that law, designed it that way,” Tonks says with a laugh. “So that he could keep exploring his love of Muggle things.”

“Very interesting those muggles. How they manage to get through life. Simply amazing.” Arthur says, peeking at your keychain.

“It’s not illegal in America,” Kingsley says. “Broom flying is.”

“Not allowed brooms.” Another red head enters the room. “How are you supposed to play Quidditch?”

“You learn about different Wizarding Laws, and you choose to focus on Quidditch.” A girl with bushy brown hair behind says in a disapproving tone. You snort at the aghast look the redhead shoots her.

“Quidditch is important,” he yells.

“Ron, Hermione, meet Dakota.” Molly says to them. You recognize the names and their appearances as the friends of Harry Potter. You get the distinct impression that Hermione recognizes you. You had received a brief moment of fame upon receiving your PH.D. You were the first Technomancer to receive one. It also helped that it coincided with you receiving your DoMM[ii].

“Hi.” “Nice to meet you.” The pair say at the same time.

You give them a half wave. “Uh—Ron? To answer your question. Brooms for Quidditch are allowed. America has a few professional teams, I think. Texas? And somewhere in the Northwest. Maybe Maine.”

“I think its Massachusetts,” Fred says.

“Isn’t Quodpot more popular there?” George asks.

You move your hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “In the south, yeah. The East Coast likes American Quidditch though.”

“American Quidditch?” Hermione questions as she settles into a seat beside Tonks.

“Err—yeah,” You say trying to remember what Robin used to say about the game. You feel a small jolt of unpleasantness at the thought. “It follows the same rules as regular Quidditch just. I think the Seeking—”

“Seeker,” Ron says, sitting beside Hermione.

“—yeah. They go on pitch—30 minutes into play? I think. And there are double the amount of hitting balls with the bat people—”

“Bludgers and Beaters.”

“—oh! And the game continues to play 30 minutes after the snitch is caught.”

“Why would you make Quidditch more dangerous?” Hermione asks. She looks offended at the concept.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t play or watch.”[iii]

“You didn’t go to games either.” Sirius Black strolls the room. “From what I remember, you and Snivellus used to sit in the hallways during matches doing schoolwork. I didn’t think I was every going to see you again, Halton.”

You look a Sirius with a flabbergasted exhaustion and apprehension. As far as you remember, Sirius Black was convicted of selling out the Potter’s to Voldemort and sent to Azkaban. Kingsley speaks before you can ask about Sirius. “Black is a member of the order and owner of the house. He was wrongly accused of being a Death Eater.”

You do your best to keep your opinions on Sirius Black from showing on your face. From the elation on many of the children’s faces, they are elated at the mans presence. You know that your distaste for his bravado will not go over well. “Hello, Sirius. It has been a long time.”

“Well, welcome to my mother’s house. Sorry about the state of the place.”

You shrug. “I don’t care.” You hope that Sirius has matured since Hogwarts.

“Anyways, Halton. You—” Sirius begins to say but was interrupted as Molly yells: “Dinner!”

One more redhead, a girl who sits beside Ron, enters the room as does a scraggly man you recognize as Remus Lupin who sits beside you. He smiles at you slightly. He seems to be tired. You smile back. “Remus.”

“Good to see you again, Halton.”

“Uh—yeah thanks.”

Molly enlists the help of Fred and George to bring the large plates of food to the table. A plethora of roasted chicken, golden scalloped potatoes, string beans, cooked carrots, and gravy is placed upon the table. Everyone thanks Molly profusely and dig in. You grab a small amount of everything save the carrots due to an unfortunate allergy which caused your throat to itch. You conclude that doing so was a good decision, however, when both Fred and George send you a sad look. Your conclusion is proved correct when Tonks, who took a hearty bite of carrot, turned a vibrant blue. She laughed good naturedly, but everyone else pushes the carrots aside.

As you finish your portion, Molly looks at you with raised eyebrows. “Dakota, dear. You have not eaten enough. Eat as much as you need!”

“Err. I’m good. Thank you,” you answer.

She waves her hand. “Nonsense.” You grab a little more of everything to satisfy her.

As dinner comes to a close, you help Molly clean the dishes. She asks no less than three more times in you are sure you ate enough, and each time you insist you have. The words are unsettling to you. You tended to not eat for days if in the middle of a project. Your coworkers were no better and certainly did not think to remind you. You think back to your mother, and the way she would cook only enough for one modest serving each. She used to say that a healthy family looked good.

“Dakota,” Molly says softly knocking you from your thoughts. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Uh—yeah. I’m good, yeah. Sorry.”

Molly nods and places a gentle hand on your shoulder. She pats it twice. “Alright, the order meeting is starting soon, kids out of the room.”

“Moooom,” Ron whines.

She shakes her head. “No. Out. Shoo.” Fred and George apparate out of the room while the rest trudge out. “And no spying devices. You hear me!” Molly turns to everyone else. “Would any of you like something to drink.”

“Tea would be wonderful,” Kingsley says and is seconded by Tonks, Sirius, and Remus.

“Yes, tea would be wonderful, Molly dear. I am sure that Dumbledore would appreciate a cup when he arrives. Dakota, would you like anything.”

“I don’t need anything, thank—” you start to say when Molly purses her lips at you. You sigh. “A coffee would be nice, if its not too much trouble.”

“At this time of night?” Molly asks.

The clock on the wall reads _8:00_. You furrow your brow. “yes?”

Molly nods and begins to make the drinks. Dumbledore arrives at _8:05_ with Severus and a man you assume is Alastor Moody, based on the eye, as Molly pours the tea and coffee into pots.

“Professor Dumbledore!” She says jovially, places the pots on the table, and moves to hug him. Severus shifts out of the way and sits beside you at the table. You glance at him through the corner of your eye and gesture to the coffee pot. _Coffee_ you mouth and pour yourself a cup. Severus smirks and grabs a mug for himself, holding it out to you. You pour him a cup. He mouths _Thank you_ back.

You take a sip of the drink. You wrinkle your forehead slightly as weak coffee hits your tongue. You suppose it may be because your used to drinking coffee which rivaled cocaine in its strength and effectiveness. You presume Severus feels the same as he also grimaces slightly.

You stifle a small snort. You notice, from the corner of your eye, Sirius stiffen. _You missed dinner,_ you mouth to Severus

_I ate with the Headmaster_

_Was it good?_

_He took us for some strange French dish, so no._

You snort again. _We had cursed carrots._

Severus rolls his eyes. _The accursed Weasley twins?_

_The very same._

Dumbledore finishes his pleasantries with the Order and sits at the table. “I see you have all met Dakota who I invited here today because we are looking to update the Order’s Security.”

“The building is under the Fidelius charm with you as the secret keeper,” Kingsley says immediately. “What could possibly break that.”

“You know for a fact the Fidelius has flaws, Kingsley. The Potter boy is example enough of that,” Alastor responds.

“This isn’t the same.” Sirius shoots a pointed look at Severus. “We aren’t trusting a rat this time.”

“Fidelus doesn’t protect against everything,” Dumbledore says. “I would also like Dakota to help security at Hogwarts as well.”

“Hogwarts is the safest place on Earth. We don’t need some alarm system protecting it,” Sirius says dismissively. You cannot hold back a laugh. Sirius turns on you. “What? It is?”

Severus answers for you with a derisive tone. “Are you really this ignorant? Every Death Eater knows where Hogwarts is, any ward can be worked around with strong enough magic and enough determination. That is also not counting for tunneling spells, transportation spells, and magical objects. Its relying on flimsy shields to defend itself. Laughable.”

“You—” Sirius begins.

“Do you doubt Hogwarts’ warding?” Tonks interrupts looking to you with concern in her voice.

You wring your hands under the table. “Uh—well. I don’t have enough. If Dumbledore. I need more.” Severus places his hand on yours. “Uh. Well. I don’t have enough information to make a complete—uh, decision. But, if they are standard wards, then yes. I do—uh. They can be destroyed.”

“This,” Arthur asks. “what is it exactly?”

You nod and grab your work folder from your bag. “These systems are largely based on Muggle alarm systems. There is a central hub which works like a computer. This computer, unlike muggle computers, operates on a uniquely magical Coding language which utilizes magical potent characters. The hardware was designed specifically to make up for magical stress places on components, specifically with electrical resistance which magic adds to. After the central hub is installed, a number of nodes are established around the perimeter of the desired area. Each node can be as much as 1 kilometre away from the central hub. A node communicates with the central hub relaying information to it. The sort of information relayed depends on what the node was built to detect. The most robust of nodes can detect: all lifeforms which interact with it providing the magical signature of said individual, the time of interference, and a picture of the individual. The picture quality is poorer than that of a camera, but what can one expect. Nodes can also be designed to attack people interfering with them with a number of preprogrammed magical effects or to keep them from entering the alarmed area.” The rehearsed words leave your mouth with ease. You had said them a million times to a million different people. You felt comfort in the unquestionable world of technology.

“A computer?” Arthur asks.

You look at the table and notice that most of them are confused. Sirius particularly looks as though you are speaking gibberish. You curse yourself internally. Kim always handled the Customer Service side of things. You think the Order’s reaction explains the near constant exhaustion Kim struggled with.

“It doesn’t matter what a computer is,” Severus drawls. “What matters is that it is an alarm system not a ward. The Dark Lord is an expert in most forms of magic. He can take down any ward if he tries hard enough. This—” he gestures to you”—he has never seen before.”

“An advantage,” Alastor nods approvingly.

You look over to Severus as the Order begins to discuss various aspects of your rant. He smirks at you and mouths _you’re welcome._ You look down at your hands. Severus’ is still placed over them. You considering moving them away but do not.

You sigh with exasperation as you realize that the house is not wired for electricity. You scribble _Generator_ onto the list of requirements for this job. Behind you, someone clears their throat. Hermione stands there clutching a book.

You glance around the room and then focus back on Hermione. “Hi?”

“I would like you to teach me Technomancy,” she says firmly with her head held high.

You raise your eyebrows and blink quickly a few times. “What?”

“Technomancy. I would like to learn it.”

“Err—yeah. Uh.” You laugh a little bit and rub the back of your neck. “What?”

“I would like you to teach me.”

You press your lips together into a thin line. “No, I got that. Err—like I guess?” You say with a bit of a laugh. “Sure, uh. Yeah. Um. Fuck. Shit. Wait, how old are you?”

“Fifteen. You will teach me?” Hermione asks with a smile on her face. You sigh and rub your eyes.

“Yeah, I guess I’m going to be at Hogwarts for the next little while, so I’m sure I can find a moment to teach you.” You look at the wall for a moment. “You know anything about muggle stuff?” you ask.

“My parents are both muggles.”

“Oh, rad. That will make this a bunch easier. Uhh, would you like a lesson now? I’ve got a minute while they’re still talking.”

Hermione looks at you, confused. “Are you not staying for the whole meeting?”

You shake your head. “No, I figured that being an Order member wasn’t my style.”

Hermione takes you upstairs to a room. All of the kids were lounging about the space. Fred and George sat huddled together over some paper which you could not see, Ron looked up from a game of Wizard’s chess he was playing with Ginny when you enter. “Bloody hell, Hermione. Already? You just announced you were going to go and ask and you’re already getting a lesson?”

Hermione huffs. “Just because you do not value knowledge—” you tune out their bickering as you glance around the room. It has clear signs of neglect like the rest of the house but seemed to have been decorated with an attempt to make it feel homier. A couple posters for the Chudley cannons were against one wall. Suitcases of school supplies and clothes lay on the left-hand side of the room. Most of them were open and disorganized, while one lay meticulously kept together. Hermione’s, you presume.

“I do not have all night,” you say suddenly, interrupting their conversation. “I would like to begin.”

Hermione nods and grabs a notebook from her suitcase. Ron tries to bring Ginny back into the game, but she turns her attention to you as does Fred and George.

You take a steadying breath. “The first thing you have to understand about Technomancy is that it is not enchanting objects. An enchanted object is an object with magic on it, the magic can—in theory—be removed. Technomancy is closer than to Wand crafting. It is an art of creating a magical object with the intention of making it magical throughout every aspect of its creation.”

Hermione takes diligent notes as you speak. You take another steadying breath. “To begin, let us talk about the basics of electricity.”

The Weasleys look at you with confusion, and you sigh. You know you have a long night ahead of you.

**Volume One: Chapter Three (A)**

**August 1975**

Upon hearing the news of your admittance into Hogwarts, your Aunt Clytemnestra agreed readily to taking you to Diagon Alley. You had never been before, and it was the most wonderful place you had ever been. The colours surrounded you in a whirlwind. Scents and sounds of which you had never experienced elated your senses. The wizard’s garb, so different from that of Muggles, was eclectic with more than a little whimsy. You trotted along with Clytemnestra getting distracted by everything you see. She took it in stride and indulged your exploration.

After a getting your required books, your aunt took you to get robes. As you stood getting measured, your eyes fell to an array of fashion robes. Your aunt, noticing your gaze, ordered you a wardrobe of outfits.

“Mum didn’t ask for any of those?” you said as she paid for the order. “Will she be able to cover them?”

Clytemnestra quirked her lips in what would be a smile if it was any other person. “Well, we simply will not tell her. These are a gift, Dakota. From me.”

“You don’t need to.”

You aunt scoffed. “Well I certainly do not need to, no. It is hardly a gift if borne out of duty. I am giving you a present, Dakota. Take it.”

“But—”

“It is rude to deny a gift.”

“—right. Thank you.” You clutched the package of clothes closely to your chest.

She led you to a small restaurant off the main stretch. You are seated at a table in the corner lit with a small candle. She ordered you both a risotto dish with Salmon. “Do you wish for a pet?” She asked you right as the food arrived.

“I have always wanted a cat.” Your father’s friend had a very lovely Russian Blue cat which you adored. His friend, a car connoisseur from Cagliari named Ernesto, was a largely unpleasant man, but you endured interactions with him to play with the cat.

She nodded. “A cat then, we will head to the shop after lunch.”

With a little black cat in hand, who you named Kevin, your aunt took you to your final stop. _Philomena’s Poems and Prose_ the sign read in a looping script. It was another bookstore, and Clytemnestra immediately set herself on grabbing books from the shelves. The shop keep, an older woman wearing bright yellow robes, walked up to your aunt asking if there was anything she could help with.

Your aunt asked for an extensive list of Classical literature spanning from Muggle to Wizard. She also requests some supplementary books on Italian and French. You turned away from them as they begin to discuss different editions of books. Two boys entered the shop. One had long black hair which hung limply about his face. The other was blond with a sharp face. You eyed them curiously, but they moved towards a section marked _1600-1750_ , and you decided that, no matter how interesting someone is, you will not read any more restoration literature than necessary. 

“Dakota,” your aunt called you over to her. “What do you like to read?”

Your mother had strict rules on the sorts of things you were allowed and not allowed to read or watch. Rheie felt that all young people should have their minds filled with the best of content the world has to offer. You suppose, with that in mind, you quite enjoyed the _Lyrical Ballads_ the poetry was easy to consume, and _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ was quite fun. You told your aunt as much.

She nodded at you and walked over to the section marked _1750-1800_. She paused and looked at the blond man who walked in. “Lucius. It is good to see you. No word of hello for a Cousin then?”

Lucius looked at her with concealed surprise. He had the other boy had been speaking in whispers, clearly embroiled in a deep conversation. “Cousin Clytemnestra. I did not see you come in.”

Your aunt laughed. “Did not see me come in? I was here when you arrived. Are you typically so unaware of your surroundings?”

He pulled a face. “No. I apologize. Severus and I were discussing employment opportunities. Following his graduation from Hogwarts.” He gestures to the man beside him.

“I jest, Lucius. How is your father?” She did not look at him while asking the question. Instead, she began to pull out various novels and passed them to you.

“Well. He recovered from an illness just recently. Was bedridden for a month. How is your husband?”

“Arcturus is well, thank you.”

“Still alive? We have not seen him at a number of our family balls. We are getting worried.”

You expected your aunt to become angered at this, but she merely smirked. You saw an intelligent gleam light up her face. “You still like to joke about me killing my husband? I would have thought you grown past childish jokes, Lucius. But, to answer your question. Arcturus has been researching lately, you know how he gets. He does not have time to be inviting strange, powerful acquaintances to his home all the time. We are far too busy.”

The colour drained from Lucius’ face. He shook it off quickly and wrinkled his nose. “Severus and I must be departing.”

“A shame.” Your aunt intoned. “Ah, but first allow me to introduce my niece, Dakota. This is Lucius Malfoy. He is uncle Arcturus’ cousin.”

“I was curious if you had borne a child.” Lucius said. “I am pleased to meet you, Dakota. That is a strange name, isn’t it?”

“It is a pleasure to meet you as well. I am always happy to meet new family,” you said. The words tumbled out of on instinct. You remembered your mother always telling you how to politely respond to her business associates, and you supposed that it was useful. “My name is American. From the indigenous tribes. My father’s father studied the magical styles.”

“This is Severus Snape.” Lucius gestured to his friend. “He is a family friend.”

Severus looks at you for a second before looking down again. “Hello.” He said quietly. A few moments later, he pays for a copy of _Paradise Lost_ and leaves the shop with Lucius Malfoy.

“So you are off to school, then?” Franklin asked as you sat on the front step of his house. He licked at an orange ice pop.

You turned your attention away from your grape ice pop and nodded. “Yeah. A boarding school in Scotland.”

“What could they teach better than we can learn here? I heard we are going to be learning about bugs this year. My brother told me.”

“Bugs? I suppose that is cool,” you said. “I don’t know. Mum said its good for me though.”

“Are you excited?”

“Yeah.”

“Well that’s what matters I guess. Will you be coming back for hols?”

“Yeah, school doesn’t go through Summer.”

“Great. Mum said she’d buy me some _Hot Wheels_ of my own. I’d like to play with you.” Franklin pulled out a beat-up Hot Wheels from the original 1968 line. It had belonged to his brother.

“Mum said I’m doing Summer school, but I’m sure I’ll be able to find some time.”

Franklin nodded. “Good. What kind of school is it anyways? All girls or something?”

You looked at Franklin for a second. “Promise not to tell anybody.” Professor McGonagall had warned you about telling anyone about Hogwarts, but you figured one person wouldn’t hurt.

He perked up at this. “Promise.”

“Pinky swear?” You held out your pinky.

He grabbed your pinky with his. “Pinky swear.”

You leaned in close to him and whispered into his ear, “It’s a school for people with magical powers.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He smiled and leant back on his hands. “Wicked.”

[i] Pronounced Tshe Y-e-hahn

[ii] This is not a thing in Harry Potter. I added it. DoMM stands for: Declaration of Magical Mastery. It is the equivalent to a PH.D. They are only administered in the U.S.A. and Canada.

[iii] All of this is made up. According to J.K. Rowling, Quodpot is more popular all over America, and they have only the two mentioned professional teams. I disagree. America is a highly polarized country with a lot of cultural variance depending on Region.


End file.
